


Bioshock Falls

by Moriabbey



Category: BioShock, Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Rapture (Bioshock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriabbey/pseuds/Moriabbey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacifica tries to fight her way out of the ruined city of Rapture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bioshock Falls

The pistol was foreign to her grip, but Pacifica held it straight and steady. Preston had held it enough these last couple of years, almost any time he went into their “utopia” of Rapture, and she’d watched and learned. She knew how to shoot, if not how to shoot well.

But she dearly hoped she wouldn’t be pressed upon to use it. Around the corner, the fight that had blocked her journey was still raging. A noise like the whirling of a boomerang punctuated the steady gunshots, with an occasional noise like wet, tearing paper cutting them both off.

Pacifica resisted the temptation to look around the corner. She didn’t need to see what was going on, and if she tried to look before all the splicers were either dead or fled, she was liable to get a torn-out throat or a bullet to the forehead for her trouble.

There was another wet paper noise, a gurgle and a “thump” against the Ryanium floor as the gunshots cut off suddenly. Pacifica held herself against the wall, the momentary silence screaming at her to run. She enough, a moment later there was another impact, but this one lighter, more controlled. Footsteps and a point sparking against the floor, another sickle clanking against it.

“Has this one got any lovely ADAM on him?” the splicer rasped, a voice that might once have been feminine turned coarse by years of plasmids.

“No... but there’s another little kitten watching us.”

The pistol started to shake in Pacifica’s grip. She seized the grip with her left hand and brought the revolver up to chest height, willing her hands not to tremble. Around the corner, the footsteps began again, coming slowly towards her. The grinding of a point on metal began again, and then stopped, as if it was being raised to readiness.

“Around and around my little needle she’ll go...”

The footstpes came to a stop just beyond the corner. Pacifica imagined she could hear the splicer’s breathing, labored and rasping, but it might have been her own racing breath, embellished by fear. She turned the shaking revolver to the right, eyes fixed on the spot the splicer would come through.

“Perhaps she’ll spill for us!”

There was a blur of movement. The shots echoed in Pacifica’s ears before she realized she had pulled the trigger, the recoil sending her stumbling backwards. It was only as the echo of the three shots began to fade that she realized she’d been firing into empty space.

Her left hand abandoned its death grip on the butt of the pistol and started fumbling through her pocket for loose rounds. In its absence, the right hand started trembling again as her head tracked to the left, searching for the missing splicer.

The left hand returned from its ammunition sojourn, flipped down the barrel of the revolver, and tremblingly began to remove the spent cases and insert fresh bullets. It was as she snapped the barrel back into place and heard a cackle from above her that she remembered why they were called “spider” splicers.

Her gaze lifted to the vaulted ceiling, glass and metal ribwork holding back the ocean thirty feet above. It was met by a leering gaze, covered by scars like those left by a childhood bout with smallpox. The splicer’s arms were bloodshot, both in the sense of the veins being visible and in the sense of being covered in blood. Each hand held a ludicrously oversized, blood-spattered gaff hook. Bare feet, scarred like her face, clung to the metal rib.

The splicer let out a screech and hurled one of her gaff hooks. Pacifica felt it whip past her neck as she hurled herself to the floor.

She brought up the pistol and fired. The round went wild, and as she tried to stabilize her aim, the splicer snatched the returning hook out of the air and dropped from the ceiling. Two more shots cut through empty air, bouncing off of shatterproof glass and Ryanium.

The splicer landed on her fee, unfazed by a drop that would have broken a normal human’s legs. Her manic grin grew wider as Pacifica shot at her until the hammer “clicked” on an empty cartridge.

“Poor little bee’s got no sting left, has she?” The splicer pulled a lock of matted hair back from its forehead with the blood-spattered hook, somehow managing not to cut itself with the absurdly preening gesture.

Pacifica’s hand shook as it searched for another round. Her fingers refused to close around the bullets before they slipped through her grasp.

“And the little bee dies after it stings, doesn’t it?”

The splicer began walking towards Pacifica again. Her stride was loose and jaunty, like she was walking towards her partner on a Fort Frolic dance floor. The gaff hooks swung wildly with her stride.

Pacifica’s hand kept shaking and the rounds kept slipping through her fingers as the splicer grew closer. Her gaze shot between the revolver and the splicer. She backed further and further into the wall until she felt the sudden, light pressure of a hook on the bottom of her chin.

“Such a pretty little bee, stuck upon the vine,” the splicer said with something it might have thought to be a tune. “Once she flew free, and now she is mine...”

The splicer gently pulled the hook upwards. Pacifica tilted her head with the motion, expecting at any moment to feel that oversized fishing hook tearing through the floor of her mouth.

She felt her trembling fingers finally close around a bullet. Ever so slowly, she pulled her hand out of her pocket and brought it to the revolver, dearly hoping the splicer was too psychotic to notice.

“Such a pretty little face this bee has,” the splicer sighed. Her voice turned colder, harder, and she whispered “I used to have a pretty face too...”

The bullet went in on the second try. In a flash of adrenaline and terror, Pacifica snapped the barrel back into place, shoved it against the splicer’s chest, and nearly snapped the trigger.

The splicer stumbled back and the hook flashed away- had it come up even a half-inch, it would have torn Pacifica’s chin wide open. She stared down at the sudden splash of red spreading across her filthy, tattered clothing.

“You stung me,” she said incredulously as Pacifica tried to shove another bullet in the revolver. “Why, you little-”

Another “click” as the barrel locked into place. Another flash of movement. Another shot, this one up, through the bottom of the splicer’s chin.

The splicer took a step backwards. Her legs spasmed and she took another one, stumbling like a drunkard. It was only as her body fell to the ground that Pacifica realized its head was gone.

As the rush of adrenaline faded, Pacifica began to feel patches of something warm and wet splashed across her face and arms. Dots of red spray coated her pale, pink skin. All the blood seemed to rush from her head and the world seemed to wobble around her.

Her hands started to shake again. She let the pistol drop. It fell into a slick of blood, the enameled white handle now smeared with crimson. She could hear Preston launching into a lecture about taking care of their things. How ugly a bloodstain was on enamel. How impossible it was to get one out of wood.

She cradled her face in her hands.

_Don’t cry,_ she told herself, even her mental voice cracking. _A Northwest doesn’t cry..._

She felt a tiny splash of salt against her palms. The blood rushed to her face as she willed her eyes to remain dry.

Then a single sob escaped. Her hands started to grow wet and she let herself slump back between the girders as her throat began to cry itself raw.

God. Six years she’d been here. Six years in the city city beneath the sea, this Art Deco heaven that had fallen into hell. Six years since her parents had torn her away from everyone and everything she’d ever known. Six years since she’d last heard Mabel’s voice...

She pulled her hands away from her face, let the tears run down her face and off her chin, and tried to look at the backs of her hands through saltwater lenses. Blood was spattered across them, streaked like rain on a car windshield.

She’d killed. Killed to protect herself, but she’d killed. How had the world come to this? She was sixteen; she should be worrying about dress cuts and school dances, not plasmid-addicted maniacs.

She thought of the surface world, of Mabel, of everything she’d been forced to leave behind. She thought of the life she could have lived by the twins and their strange uncle. She thought of a life without plasmids, without killers and bloodstained revolvers, and she collapsed to the floor and cried until she could cry no more.


End file.
